, I suppose, shriek.
t bethe
seams of tain. A face appears, close to my o tic, but t of t my little tea of biscuits and s wine. Sgown, and down.
Noly. s it to my rokes my face, and I groears flourally I say I ics, and she laughs.
tics ot you glad, to t is only strange for you o it.
Sakes up . I see , and begin at once again to cry.—! she says.
I say I do not like tened to lie alone. Sates, tiles. But I dare say my bed is softer t is er, and fearfully cold. S last t sil I sleep. She darkness.
Sells me s me rest my t you like it here?
I say I t a little, if s; and at t stles ably upon ttress.
S once, and face-cream. , at t, and I find t for sleep to come—as if I am tumbling into t darkness and t will save me.
I am telling you t you mige t work upon me, making me w I am.
Next day, I am kept to my to se my terrors of t, t do it! I cry,
tearing tiles beats me. My go being so stiff, ss riking of my back. I take tle consolation I mig.
I am beaten often, I believe, in my first days t be ots, tings of ty y of my uncles o fits and foaming tempers. I am an amiable craint. I dasable to til ts fly from my il my t bleeds. My passions are met s, eac. I am bound about ts and mout into lonely rooms, or into cupboards. One time—urned a candle and let t til taken by Mr ay into to t remember, noal—t tick in try silence, like so many clocks. tick for tiles comes to release me I and cannot be uncurled, and am as hey had drugged me.
I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.
If sers for ever!
It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.
to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as for tiles conduct me to ions o my progress.
iles?
Still badly, sir.
Still fierce?
Fierce, and snappish.
Youve tried your hand?
Semper, more rages and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.
a